


Potty, Fetus and Draco Malfoy

by syringe



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, Drarry, Eventual mpreg, Humor, M/M, Mpreg, Romance, Slow Build, So you don't really have to worry about it if you're not into that it's a long way ahead, Weddings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2020-11-28 01:31:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20958230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syringe/pseuds/syringe
Summary: This is the story of how Draco Malfoy ended up in a Wandpoint (Shotgun) Wedding with none other than the Chosen Git himself. Be warned that Draco will not tolerate any butchering of the details, and you will receive a full account ofallevents leading up to this fateful matrimony.It all started when the Weasel and Granger-Now-Weasel were preparing for their wedding...[a slow build rom-com]





	1. P.W.B.B

**Author's Note:**

> hello :-) thanks for deciding to join me on this wacky journey of a fic i'm about to write. i anticipate it to be long, slow and lighthearted! so sit back and relax! i've planned out some mpreg to come much, much later in the story, so if it's not your cuppa, feel free to leave it now or then ;^; thank you, and enjoy <3 (more tags to be added later)

_~Oh baby when you talk like thaaat!~_

_"You make a woman go maaad," Harry finds himself singing along, amidst the curious haze that occupies the space that would normally be: all of his surroundings._

_"So be wise, and keep ooon," a new voice joins in, and the owner seems fully committed to upholding a (very sub-par) Shakira impression, yodelling and all. Harry has a slight foreboding feeling that everything's about to go a bit pear shaped about now, when a lithe body swings into his, literally out of nowhere, and pulls him into a tango. _

_"Reading the signs of my-- whoa, what the hell?" he interrupts himself in the midst of this exciting recital of 'Hips Don't Lie', when it appears that he's got an armful of pretty, blonde:_

_"I'm pregnant," comes the malicious whisper in his ear, successfully sending him _flying_._

"VANESSA THORNBERRY!!" Harry shouts, leaping out from the comfort of his bed and wrapping his arms around himself reflexively, for whatever reason. He's panting hard and searching fervently for the aforementioned woman, only to find a rumpled bed, a blurry Ron Weasley at the door and a Wizarding radio playing- you guessed it- 'Hips Don't Lie' at a tinny pitch. 

"That was 'Hips Don't Lie' by Shakira here on The Muggle Mixer-!" the radio blares, before it's silenced by the redhead with a flick of his wand. 

"Vanessa Thornberry? Now _that's_ a name I haven't heard for a while around here," Ron says, amused, and a flustered Harry grapples around on the cluttered bedside tabletop for his glasses.

"Dream," he grunts once he finds them and puts them on. He scratches at his bare chest.

"Good dream? Bad dream?" Ron quips, collapsing onto his roommate's bed, fully dressed in his Auror robes.

"Sexy dream?" he continues with an ill-fitting leer in Harry's direction, causing him to scowl darkly, "Come on! Give a man some details!"

"Definitely _not_ 'sexy dream'," the brunet groans and lies back down. He's still in his boxers (sleepwear, he says to outsiders, lest the Prophet catch wind of it and have a field day. God knows they wouldn't hesitate to make a front page spread titled 'High and Mighty Potter Wears Tighty Whities To Bed!') so he's technically allowed, by law, to burrow back into his wonderful, warm duvet and forget about the world. He resists the temptation, "The worst dream. A nightmare of astronomic proportions."

"Hermione Point," Ron grumbles, and Harry nods in acknowledgment. Every fancy phrase to pass either Harry or Ron's lips earns the speaker a Hermione point. It's been their own little variant on the Hogwarts House point system ever since the war had ended and they had realized they missed Hogwarts, very much. Harry's confident he's going to win the Hermione Cup this year. 

"What was it about?" Ron asks, staring up at a spot on the ceiling.

"We were dancing to Shakira and she did the bad thing," Harry says vaguely, and Ron nods, understanding his terminology immediately. Of course he understands. It was the worst thing to happen to Harry after Voldemort. 

"I'd say you ought to get out and date some more," the redhead says thoughtfully, and at the sight of Harry's scowl, adds: "except your perpetual type is Pretty, Blonde, Bitchy women. Capitalized."

"Hermione Point. Nice," Harry acknowledges, and Ron ducks his head in thanks, "and no! That's bollocks."

"But it's not!" Ron whines, "Kathy? Tiffany? _Vicky_? We're not seriously forgetting Vicky, mate."

Harry winces. Yes, Vicky had been a grave mistake, especially when she'd gotten a server at _Le Petit Chateau_ fired for looking at her a second too long. And when she'd thrown out half of Harry's sock collection when he 'forgot her birthday' while in truth he'd been planning a surprise party for her. It had taken numerous summoning and cleaning charms, as well as a hellish breakup to retrieve every last pair, and yet, they'll never be the same. You can't mess with a man's socks, period. 

"Okay, Vicky was bad," Harry admits tightly, "but-"

"No buts, Harry, you know I'm right," Ron says with an air of finality and Harry, for lack of a better thing to do, sulks back in his covers while his roommate smirks down at him like the cat that got the cream. 

Then with a sly smile, Harry says, "You're getting married this month." Ron's smirk effectively dissolves into panic. 

"Mate!" he yelps, immediately jumping to his feet and starting to pace the room like a madman. Harry's smile doesn't waver in the slightest. _Works every time_.

*

Yes, Ron and Hermione are finally getting married. Four and a half years of sexual tension and three more of passionate dating had lead up to that fateful day. Ron on one knee with a little velvet box in his shaking hands. A tearful Hermione startling everyone else in the restaurant with her pitchy "YES! OH MY GOD, RONALD, YES!!" And Harry sitting at a back table Polyjuiced into Uncle Vernon (eurgh) passive-aggressively initiating a collective applause ("Clap your hands, you worthless buffoons! Don't you lot ever watch romantic movies till the end?").

But after the humdrum of the engagement and the whole 'I've got a fiance(é)!' phase had worn off, it was all a flurry of tedious wedding preparations, robe fittings, ring shopping, endless planning, and Hermione's penchant for ridiculous, overambitious ideas. 

"You're not having a renaissance artwork themed wedding." 

-Harry says, blunt as can be. It's Ron and Hermione's lunch break at the Ministry, and Harry's been more than happy to come visit every single day. It's the Quidditch off-season, and as much as Harry loves every moment he spends playing for Puddlemere United, he's grateful for the long, lazy mornings he spends in his flat doing nothing. And chicks. Until Vanessa, of course. 

Regardless, Ron isn't having half as good a time as Harry. He's got his red head in his hands, staring dejectedly at his half eaten turkey sandwich as Hermione prattles on and on and on about her plans for the wedding. She's been doing that a lot lately; using every waking moment of the day, aside from work, talking about what's about to be the happiest day of her life. And presumably, not Ron's. Ron's will likely be the day after the wedding, when he's married and done with all the preamble and allowed to shag his new wife without the fear of- god forbid- any more planning. 

"Yes we are, Harry!" the couple said in unison. Though while Hermione's tone was firm, Ron's was weak, and a tad long-suffering. 

"It'll be wonderful! Muggle renaissance art is beautiful and unique on it's own, and that's barely scratching the surface of it! Have you _seen_ Wizarding artwork from that time period?" Hermione says, seemingly in one breath, eyes bright and cheeks aflush. 

"No," Harry replies, even though the question was a rhetorical one, "and neither has Ron, I bet."

He casts a glance in his mate's direction, but the redhead's eyes have gone misty and he's gazing at Hermione with love-hearts in them.

"Oh, it's fascinating! Imagine all the gorgeous outfits! Ron can be in some of those dashing dress robes with frills at the neck! And you too, Harry."

"Surely we're not letting this happen without a smashing debate! Isn't that right, Ron? ...Ron?"

Harry's waving a hand in Ron's line of sight, fruitlessly of course. 

"I don't care. I'm getting _hitched_!" Ron says dreamily, and Harry's stomach sinks to his feet. He's estimating the number of trays laden with baked goods he'll have to dish out to bribe Ron with until he can get his head out of his arse and hopefully put a stop to all this mad talk about frills. Then Hermione drops a second metaphorical bomb:

"And we're inviting everyone from all kinds of Houses!" she says cheerfully, jotting the idea down onto a bit of parchment lest it abandons her. 

"Mm," agrees Ron.

"So that'll include Draco Malfoy," Hermione says carefully, and Ron's eyes bug out. It's almost like a switch has been flipped, and it would be funny, really, if Harry weren't so baffled at the sudden change in gears. 

"No!" Ron exclaims, and at Hermione's puppy eyes, swallows thickly and firmly reiterates: "Hermione. No!"

"I can't believe you're just allowing us all to be collectively tortured with poncey, frilly uniforms but decide it's time to put your foot down when it comes to inviting a kid who made one too many 'yo momma' jokes in school."

"One too many-! Harry this is Malfoy we're talking about here! Malfoy? You know?" 

Ron's blue eyes are wide and looking at him in a way that makes him wonder if he's grown another head. The third member of the trio continues fervently jotting down names on her list, her sad apple pie lying cold and forgotten in front of her. Lunch time should really be renamed 'mucking about because it's the only time of the day you can avoid doing your work and feel alright about it' time.

"Come off it Ron, please? It'll be such a fantastic way to burn old bridges and build new ones! Possibly nice ones. With lovely colour-shifting streetlights. Overlooking a gorgeous blue sea, perhaps..." Hermione sighs, euphorically, while somehow continuing to write on her parchment. 

"Yeah, mate, Malfoy's not that bad anymore," Harry shrugs, shifting to balance his elbows on the glass table, careful to avoid the mysterious orange goop that's been coagulated on the surface of it since Merlin-knows-when. Granted, he hasn't seen Malfoy up close since the war trials, and even then, Malfoy had not been quite... well... Malfoy enough to call it a proper interaction. He's just recently joined the Falmouth Falcons as Seeker: a year or so later than Harry had entered the world of competitive Quidditch, given that he's probably had to train longer. All he's seen of the blond after that is, well, his blond hair- silver, if you will- characteristically glinting from afar. 

"Probably," Harry adds as an afterthought, "he's _probably_ not that bad anymore. I certainly haven't talked with him."

"This is mad talk," Ron squeaks, and the shock of both his best friends (one of them being his fiancée!) having opinions so drastically at odds with his own shocks him back into his perpetual state of hunger. He picks up his no doubt cold turkey sandwich and continues devouring it, as he should, "Hermione, I know all this planning is stressing you out, and you must be in a fragile headspace at this moment, and I forgive you. But from you, Harry? Are you sure this isn't just your... little _issue_ speaking?"

Harry turns to the enchanted window with a huff, squinting as the sunlight stings his eyes, "Half a Hermione Point for articulacy. And I don't know what you're talking about." But he has a feeling that he does know, and that's a concerning thought on its own. 

"We talked about it just this morning."

"If it's my fondness towards 'Hips Don't Lie', then I'll have you know-"

"No, it's about your 'fondness'," Ron air quotes this bit, the devil, "towards PWBBs!"

"Pubes?!" Hannah Abbot shrieks as she walks by, nearly tripping over her heels in the process and scuttling away as soon as she recovers. Harry grimaces; they really need to get a new gathering spot. Smack in the centre of the Ministry cafeteria is a horrible place to be discussing Harry's fondness towards:

"Pubes?" Harry asks belatedly, shaking his head as if that would help wrap it around the situation at hand, "What did you just say?"

"No, not pubes, PWBBs!" Ron says seeming quite happy with himself. 

"Both of what you just said sound exactly the same."

"I believe he means P.W.B's, Harry," Hermione says fondly, and ruffles Ron's hair, "That's a Hermione Point for making inappropriate-sounding acronyms. Oh Ron, this is wonderful!"

Ron smirks at Harry, who scowls right back, "And what's a P.W.B? Do I even want to know?"

"It's actually P.W.B.B for Pretty Women Blonde n' Bitchy," Ron says at the same time as Hermione says "Petite Woven Baskets!"

Their heads whip around to face eachother.

"Ron! That's disgusting!" Hermione gasps, apalled, just as Ron asks, "Petite Woven Baskets?"

"They're kind of... neat," Harry mumbles sheepishly while simultaneously shooting Hermione a dark look. She promised she wouldn't tell! Well, on the bright side, maybe he could finally unshrink his growing collection of baskets and start decorating the flat with their adorable reedy goodness... "what were we talking about?"

"Your obsession with Pretty, Blonde, Bitchy Women!" Ron exclaims, thoroughly exasperated, "And Malfoy's one of em! That's why you're being so-"

"Hey! Last time I checked, Malfoy's definitely not a woman," Harry shudders, "Scratch that. I've never checked to confirm."

"So you admit he's pretty?" Ron quirks a speculative eyebrow as he finishes his sandwich off. 

"He's an alright-looking bloke," Harry scratches his head, suddenly thoughtful, "Nothing to write home about. Although he does have a pretty decent color palette-"

"Merlin above, the blondes have got him wrapped around the ends of their silky pale hairs," Ron wails.

"Alright," Harry placates, "so maybe I'm a little partial to blondes."

There's a collective gasp from a few ladies around him, and he clicks his tongue in irritation.

"And I DON'T LIKE EAVESDROPPERS," he says a fair bit louder before dropping his tone again, "but Malfoy? Ridiculous."

"Entirely too much penis on him, I presume," Hannah Abbot mentions, passing by once again.

"Hey!" Harry groans, "Also, yes."

"So I was thinking... we could get Malfoy to wear one of the shirts with the poofy sleeves!" Hermione calls out victoriously, "he's awfully skinny, and-"

"'Mione that's perfect!" Ron exclaims, his freckled face coming alive with the prospect of torturing his nemesis with the fruity garb of the Old, "invite the prat! Do it now!" Hermione glares at him, but she's gotten her way so she refrains from saying anything more. 

Harry laughs at his friends' antics, and spares Malfoy another brief thought. Once a prominent figure in his life, albeit negative, and now completely disconnected. He wonders what it'll be like to interact with Malfoy without the crippling pressure of the war and the constant apprehension towards how he was about to compose his next 'yo momma' barb. Or punch Harry's face in. 

"He's not as bad as he used to be," Harry says again, more to himself than to the others. 

"Probably," his friends add in unison. 

"Probably," Harry agrees with a sigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please leave me a comment if you can! any feedback makes me real happy :)))) my twt is @dracominnie if you'd like to be friends!₊*̥(* ⁰̷̴͈^⁰̷̴͈)‧˚₊
> 
> thank you for reading!


	2. blonde ambition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a little bit of delay before this one, but oh well. this is a draco centric chapter!

Draco Malfoy awakens from a _very_ pleasant slumber indeed: skin warm and cock hard. Grinning, he pushes the covers aside and takes a hold of himself, pumping the rosy pink appendage gingerly- once, twice- and allowing little shivers of pleasure to hold him captive. 

Then, two things happen. 

An owl swoops in through his- gods, who in their right mind left it open?- _open window_ and drops a letter on him. It's only by a small miracle that it does not end up hitting him where it hurts the most, and if you ask him, the owl that delivered it looks horribly disgruntled at having missed the opportunity. 

Next, his wizarding radio blares up, indicating that it is not, in fact, 11 AM at all. It's actually 8:30 in the morning, and a lovely vacation sleep-in wasted all because Draco couldn't be arsed to turn his alarm off. Or close the window. And to top it all off is the most ridiculous of news segments coming from the drasted thing:

"...in other news, anonymous sources confirm that the Wizarding World's Hottest Young Celebrity, our very own Saviour Harry Potter-"

Draco rolls his eyes so severely that he sees black. Whenever will the Wizarding press get their heads out of Potter's arse?

"-is OBSESSED with fair haired babes! That's right: grab your bleaching potions, ladies! It's time to go blonde!"

Draco freezes mid blasting curse, lowering his wand sullenly as the radio keeps prattling on about Potter like he'd single-handedly brought blondes (the superior hair colour, really) to glory. He scowls, reclining back against his velvet headboard and stroking a hand up his cock that had been wilting rather sadly, no thanks to all the interruptions. Nothing is going to stop him from wanking this morning, especially not _Potter_. 

Of course, hoardes of silly _bottle blondes_ that are no doubt going to stem from this broadcast will be doing favours for absolutely no one. Not even Potter deserves that. Draco Jr. begins to twitch back to life under the constant attention from its most loyal companion- Draco's right hand- and he hums, running his fingers through the damp blond curls at its base. Natural, of course. 

"-and hold onto your shaving charms! Anonymous acquaintances also reported hearing of the Chosen One's fetish for hair- downstairs!"

"Gah!" Malfoy cries out, retracting his hand from the afforementioned curls as if they burned him. The motion, unfortunately results in him toppling over the edge of his bed and onto the floor in an extremely undignified heap of bare limbs. 

So much for having a wank this morning. Draco Jr. is so upset that he's retreated back into his foreskin, unlikely to escape its confines for at least another day. How _mortifying_. 

Additionally, the blasted letter from earlier decides it's time to make itself relevant again by plopping to the ground next to the blond, who is scowling quite heavily now. The only upside to this situation is that his Wizarding radio has run out if things to say- but even that is quickly overshadowed by the pain that shoots up his spine when he tries his damnedest to sit up. 

"Bollocks," is all he can say in response. Articulate speech be damned when he's naked and on the floor, in a decidedly not-kinky way. 

Since the situation cannot possibly get any worse, Draco breaks the wax seal of the drasted letter and peers at the gold lettered contents of it. 

__

  
Dear Mr. Draco Malfoy, and family:

With great pleasure

Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger  
invite you to join them at the celebration of their marriage

Saturday, August 10, 2002

at 2:30 in the afternoon-

"Heavens," Draco says faintly, rubbing his eyes wearily with his pointer and middle fingers, "they've gone round the bend."

With no small amount of effort, the blond manages to slip into one of his many silk dressing robes- not before casting another disdainful look towards his _blond pubes_, thank you, Potter, for ruining absolutely everything- and trudges towards the washroom. 

Once freshened up, and cured of the minor back pain that was threatening to ruin his morning even more than it already had been, Draco makes his way to his father's study. 

Once approaching the heavy oak doors, he raps on one with his knuckles- once, twice, "Daddy?"

The word echoes horribly in the vastness of the corridor, but he refuses to let himself be embarrassed of it in the privacy of his own home. What kind of monstrous child chooses a nickname for his or her parent at the wee age of one- or two if they're slow- and does not keep it up till the end of time?

There comes a ridiculous amount of noise from behind the doors before his father's voice calls, "Come in."

With the slightest bit of hesitation, Draco pushes a door open and enters the far-too-large room. Lucius Malfoy sits calmly at his (very ostentatious) desk with his fingers authoritatively steepled in front of him. He's wearing a dressing robe similar to Draco's own, and his hair...

"Daddy," Draco says, striding towards the desk slowly, "You're curling."

Indeed, the older man's formidably long hair was wrapped around pale green curlers that Draco swears he's seen on his mother before. 

Lucius coughs delicately, "Yes, well... I had not anticipated seeing you this early in the morning, Draco," he reaches up to re-adjust one curler, "Furthermore, I am expected at a colleague's home come supper. I was informed I... look quite well with 'beach waves', yes?"

Draco nods, "Well enough. What were you doing down here in your night things, though?"

Lucius coughs again, and pushes aside a small frame that lay face down on his desktop. 

"Nothing of importance, son," he says firmly. 

"Is it that weird little picture of Potter again?" Draco sneers. 

"It is _not_ weird," Lucius says tightly, "And it is not the Potter spawn! Lord, Draco, where on earth do you get these irrational ideas from?"

His own eyes, apparently: Draco had only seen it about three times but it had been quite evident that it was a tiny little painting of a... somewhat buff Potter in his underwear. Jesus H. He really doesn't want to know anything about it, and Lucius, thankfully, does not seem inclined to share. 

"Moving on," Draco says uneasily, "I came here to discuss the contents of this letter I recieved earlier today, via a very rude owl."

Lucius takes the decorative envelope from his hands and reads it. 

"Heavens," he says once he's finished with it. 

"I know," Draco nods gravely, "I had anticipated we'd be sharing an opinion regarding this. Do not fret, Daddy, I'll draft up a polite refusal-"

"Refusal?" Lucius interrupted with a furrowed brow, "I hadn't fancied you an idiot, Draco. Do you not realize what a prestigious event this is? Two out of three of the Golden Trio are marrying- eachother! The only event more culturally relevant would be the marriage of Harry Potter himself!"

"Yeah, I don't think you should go to Potter's wedding," Draco eyes the portrait frame again, shiftily, "or be around Potter at all, for that matter."

"For Salazar's sake!" Lucius cries, "It is _not_ your childhood infatuation, Harry Potter!"

"I was _not_ infatuated! It was a healthy rivalry-!"

"Look at him!" Lucius exclaims, all but shoving the portrait of a- yes that's Potter half naked, all right. And he's rubbing up quite suggestively against an old broomstick model, "Does this look like Harry Potter to you?"

"Yes! Yes! It looks exactly like Harry Potter! _Move_ it!" Draco yanks the frame out of his father's hands and places it face down on the table once again.

"It is certainly not him," Lucius sniffs, taking the frame and placing it gently next to a photograph of Draco at two years old, already bashing fellow out-of-frame toddlers over their heads with a teething ring and a nasty expression. It's great to start building character at a young age. 

"He had hazel eyes," Lucius says huffily, "and better hair by a landslide. And he called me Lucy. Sometimes."

"Pardon my directness, but are we speaking about Potter's deceased, married father?" Draco's voice climbs in pitch with every next word. 

"He had a thing for blondes," Lucius says wistfully, "until that ginger girl showed up and _suddenly_ decided she _was_ interested in dating him after years of vehemently rejecting him and he said I was only a rebound fuck until his one true love came around and I had to dispose of the engagement ring I'd custom ordered for him-" 

"Daddy," Draco says mildly, because Lucius' eyes are glazing over and that's never a good sign, "So... we're going?"

"Yes, your mother and I love eachother very much," Lucius says dazedly. 

"I must go now," Draco eases out of his chair and- don't tell Potter- kisses Lucius on his cheek, "draft an acceptance letter..."

"You are the highlight of this marriage, and I love you, Draco," he responds. 

"Surely this is getting a tad depressing," Draco said quickly, making a beeline for the door, "Have fun at your... colleague's."

"Blonde ambition Draco," Lucius says with an air of finality, "use your powers well."

Draco leaves the house feeling understandably vexed. His father's inexplicable revelations, the prospect that all Potter's were perhaps helplessly attracted to blondes...

"This is simply not done," Draco mutters, pulling on a set of lovely plum coloured robes that he had originally hated with a burning passion. 

This perversion will only end once he's dyed his hair a different colour. See if any Potters go mooning over _that_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so...
> 
> the boys will definitely meet in the next chapter! please leave me a comment if you can! any feedback makes me real happy :)))) my twt is @dracominnie if you'd like to be friends!₊*̥(* ⁰̷̴͈^⁰̷̴͈)‧˚₊
> 
> thank you for reading!


	3. fireproof

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i laughed writing this chapter. it's really rather stupid. i hope you like it! :-)

Surely Irony is a sick little bint, because on his mission to make himself Absolutely and Surely Immune to Potter's Affections, Draco nearly runs into the man himself-- after four years of sharing brief glances and nothing more with him. 

He's standing in front of a woven basket display, for some reason, with a decidedly longing expression on his face whilst-- goodness is that Granger?-- a brunette woman tugs at his arm. 

Being the king of stealth that he is, Draco braces himself, and his perfectly styled hair, making a mad sort of duck-n-dash through the mass of bodies that occupy Diagon Alley at noon. Unfortunately, the hand that holds his fringe flat against his forehead in order to prevent any major ruffling throws off his balance. This ultimately results in him bumping into something or the other, and falling- Lord- flat on his bum. 

'It's alright though,' he assures himself firmly, 'Potter and his blind arse can never see me down here.'

"Why, Mr. Malfoy, those are some fetching robes!" calls a loud- _very_ loud- jovial voice above him, and he groans as he turns up to face Horace Slughorn (as well as what looks to be the entirety of Diagon Alley available within a twenty metre radius) currently eyeing his robes greedily.

"Yea- yes. Thank you, Sir," Draco says humbly in a practiced aristocratic drawl (and privately, tacks on a "you great, big, bumbling idiot" at the end). Several people are still staring, and Draco has half a mind to blurt out "can't any of you nosy buggers move along and mind your own business for once?"

"Pray tell me, where _have_ you got them from?" Slughorn continues as if A: Draco isn't ready to tear him apart in a fit of rage and/or is B: willing to share the secrets of his dashing good looks in front of a plethora of prying Wizardfolk. 

To top it all off, Potter has somehow managed to spot him regardless of how much he'd prayed otherwise. Well.

"Malfoy," he calls out in a strangely affected tone. His eyes carry within them a look of deep sorrow, as well as longing. They're aimed at a spot just above his...

Draco gasps, scandalized, and claps both hands over his carefully arranged hair. The raging pervert! He _knew_ the presence of blonde hair was prone to get Potter excited in his nether regions but who'd have thought the mere sight of it was capable of getting the brunet all... hot and bothered? Or at least, that's what it seems like, based off of the intensity in his green eyes that are fixed upon a point noticeably higher than Draco's brow. 

Heavens! Is Potter now emotionally attached to Draco's hair? They haven't even been on a single date yet (his hair and Potter, that is)! He knew he should have been more hasty in trying to remove all traces of blonde from his hair. Trust Potter to be the type to get far too sentimental far too early on. No self respecting hairstyle should be subjected to Potter's-

"-foy? We are looking forward to seeing you there," Granger says with an air of finality. Draco's caught absolutely nothing of what the bint has said, but he nods solemnly regardless. 

"It will be my pleasure, Granger," he says, and pointedly refuses to verbally acknowledge Potter's presence. The oaf is still staring at his hair with that _look_ in his eyes, and it's starting to make him feel decidedly uncomfortable. As well as very hot! Why is it so hot this afternoon? Surely this is another sign that he should have ventured out to the salon at an earlier hour. 

"Harry, come on, they're fine," Granger says in an exasperated tone, whilst Potter whimpers in the direction of Draco's hair. 

"They're just so... fragile and small," he says, and seriously, what in Salazar's name are they talking about? Draco swivels his head around, and his gaze is met with a stand for woven baskets that he'd unceremoniously crashed into a few moments prior. 

"Bugger," he curses, and leaps (no, not scrambles. Leaps.) up to his feet. Trust these peasants not to have a grasp on the concept of human decency and leave him sitting on the cobbled walkway like some animal. 

"Excuse me, but I must be on my way," Draco says politely, and Granger nods. Potter does not say a word, nor does he look away from the basket display while Draco leaves in a flurry of robes. He is <i>not</i> feeling put out in the slightest. 

*

"Mr. Malfoy, please be having a sit," a house elf squeaks importantly. It (he? She?) is wearing a belt geared with spray bottles, trimmers and combs alike, although the purpose of these items at the hands of an elf is unknown, "Ms. Fairweather is being with you shortly."

Draco nods his acknowledgment and reclines in the high backed salon chair with a sigh. With an air of wistfulness, he rakes his gaze over his platinum hair in the mirror. As beloved as it is, it simply must go. Preventing Potter's uncanny perversions towards blondeness is far more important than emotional attachments and superficial beauty. Although, Potter seems not to have showna specific fondness towards _Draco's_ hair, despite it being the most superior of blonds. The bigot. 

Perhaps he was feigning disinterest in order to preserve his fragile ego? It's certainly a possibility. Although gazing at hair like it's your one true love is strange (not so much if it is Draco's because have you _seen_ Draco's hair?), it is not as strange as having strong emotional feelings towards woven baskets. 

"Mr. Potter, Ms. Granger, please be having a sit. Ms. Clearwater is being with you shortly."

<i>Fuck. Shit. Arse. Cock. Damn it all.</i>

Draco shoots a barely concealed glare at the ever-messy Potter who (of course!) takes the seat right next to Draco. He should have kept in mind that the bloody oaf was frighteningly talented at stalking individuals. Specifically, wealthy individuals with ravishing looks, an enticing sense of fashion and names that start with a 'D', end with an 'O' and have the letters 'R', 'A' and 'C' in the middle. 

Suddenly it is, once again, incredibly important that Draco make this change and possibly put an end to Potter's disgusting infatuation with him. Hopefully the attraction is limited only to his hair, but the chances of Potter being obsessed with, say, all of Draco are frighteningly high. The woes of being perfect. 

And anyway, what else would Potter be doing at a salon, if not stalking Draco? He doubts the man has ever stepped foot in one over the course of his entire life, if that horrible mop of soft... fluffy... black... hair! If that horrible mop of hair is anything to go by. 

"Hermione, this this really necessary?" Potter asks Granger, as if he hasn't noticed Draco sitting directly to his left. The gall of him! "My hair is fine..."

Fine, he says. A bigger lie has yet to be told. 

"Oh come on, Harry, you'll look great! I know this is your first time at a salon, but-"

Draco makes a highly undignified snorting noise at this. Oh, this is just too good to be true! Potty really _has_ never been to a salon!

Both Gryffindors turn to face the source of the noise, who has swiftly whipped out a linen hanky with which he pretends to wipe his nose delicately. 

"Gesundheit," Draco says mildly, "Granger, Potter. We meet again."

Potter's gaze is wary, and Granger's is guarded, "Malfoy. What brings you here? I recall being informed that you're blessed with hair good enough not to require professional styling?"

Yes, Draco had said that, but it's been a long while since. Although Granger's brain is, factually, a sponge so it's no surprise that she remembers such a mundane bit of snark. 

"Oh yes, I do recall saying so, Granger, and I stand by my word. I just think it's high time I had a _change_," he emphasizes this last word pointedly in Potter's direction in an attempt to let him know that his perversions have been found out, and will cease to be tolerated. Potter blinks, missing the memo completely. As expected, of course. 

Abruptly, two hairstylists apparate behind their respective clients, and the awkward conversation is, fortunately, cut short. 

*

Draco had only given a brief thought about what colour he'd like to change his hair to. Something dark would be nice, but Potter has dark hair, and that was just no good. Then again, he refused to let Potter influence his personal decisions in any way, shape or form and had thus decided to go with a rich dark brown. _I'm more drawn to brunette men and women anyway_, he had thought, as he was instructing the stylist on what to do for him. _To hell with Potter_, he'd added, just for good measure. 

Potter seemed to have requested 'a trim'. When asked to specify, the uncouth ape had simply shrugged. 

That had all taken place nearly three hours ago. At the present, such peace was a thing of the past. A fantasy, if you thought about it too hard. 

On one hand, Draco's hair had turned a lovely brown colour... for all of three seconds before the colour had begun to drip. Thick globules of brown trickling down the length of Draco's individual hairs like raindrops on a window; leaving it dry and just as white blonde as it had started off as. 

On the other hand, Potter's freakshow of a hairdo kept regrowing after every snip of his stylist's trimmers. Like a demented game of whack-a-mole, thick tufts of black hair disconnected from their roots fell to the floor- new ones growing in their place, just as long as before. 

Draco, looking in the mirror in front of him, thinks he's starting to look a little red in the face. Thankfully, he had the sense to discard his robes beforehand, but his previously pristine white undershirt is now soiled with random splatters of the brown dye and his patience is wearing very thin. 

Potter's expression is sleepy as his eyes meet Draco's in the mirror. His head is currently in the process of receiving a complete shave at the hands of a new stylist. 

"My aunt tried that once," he says to the room, as his hair begins to grow back right before their eyes, "it didn't work out so well." For the few seconds that he had been hairless though, Potter looked utterly ridiculous, which was good. It's the small things in life, Draco conceded. 

"Is this a practical joke?" the second of at least 12 stylists goggles incredulously in the direction of Draco's dripping hair, "Are you two having us on?"

"No, please, it's not like that," Granger pleads, "Harry says his hair has been this way since he was little."

"Runs in the family, I suppose," another hairdresser comments lightly, examining a bottle of Sleekeazy's hair potion (which is commonly known to have been founded by an ancestor of Potter's). 

"Don't know about Malfoy though," Potter says in a stage whisper, snickering as half his bald head begins to regrow rapidly, "Maybe _he_ really is having you on."

"Excuse me!" Draco says, shooting a scandalized glare the brunet's way, "I'll have you know we Malfoys are well known for our supernatural, hyper-magical  _ blond _ hair. Why, my great-great-great-great- _ great  _ grandfather Aracnis Malfoy had used his own hair to weave himself a jumper during the difficult times of the goblin war and  _ guess what it did _ ! It repelled fire! Yes it did! What's a little brown  _ muck  _ next to the flames of a Vipertooth Dragon?"

Potter blinks at him before turning his eyes up to look at Draco's hair.

_Fuck_!  Draco thinks, resisting the urge to shield his poor hair from the eyes of this... this  pervert . This  _ fetishist _ ! This is the opposite of what he was trying to achieve. 

"What are you looking at, Potter?" he snaps. The brunet looks back at him immediately. Aha-  _ too  _ immediately. 

"You were talking about the otherworldly powers possessed by your... hair," Potter says pointedly, "I was merely taking a look at it in case of a sudden display of...  _ fireproof _ qualities."

Alarmingly, Draco's head begins to grow warm and his eyes widen . Potter  _wouldn't_.  Would he?

As it turns out, he would: because Draco's hair is in flames. 

"Harry!" his friend shrieks.

"What? He said-"

Draco doesn't listen long enough to find out what he'd said. True to his word, red and orange fizzles out into a mere spark, leaving his hair perfectly untouched, perhaps in need of a brush. (Still, who knew great aunt Marcelline wasn't bluffing about the fireproof thing. Draco'd always thought it was a bit of horseshit.)

"You... you sicko! You psycho!" He yells, swivelling around in his salon chair to glare lividly at Potter. "You set my head on fire!"

"Hey, calm down," the brunet placates, but his expression is unsure, "I-"

"I know exactly what you were trying to do!" he declares threateningly, "I put you on the spot, so you panicked and did-"

"Malfoy, look. I'm sorry-" Potter tries, but Draco is having none of it. 

"-something stupid and Gryffindorish, as you do, to  _ hide  _ the fact that  _ you  _ are a nasty little freak who PULLS HIMSELF OFF TO MY HAIR!"

"I- what?" 

The salon goes completely silent after Draco's outburst. He himself is too busy panting and glaring down at Potter's stupid gawking face to notice the look of astonishment on Granger's face (or the woman whose hair has been chopped off clean in the excitement. That would have been funny on any other day.)

"What?" Potter asks again, as if he actually needs to understand something that had been borne in the boughs of his own twisted psyche. 

"That's right, I don't know what you think of me Potter, but I listen to the news and I know you're a pervert, and a fetishist but you know what? I won't let that bring me down because guess what-"

Potter is still for a good few seconds before he asks, "um, what?"

Draco leans in very close, the tip of his nose nearly touching Potter's, and whispers, "I've got a white blond bush, yes its natural, and you are never coming anywhere near it till the day we both die- would you  _ get _ that shit away from me!" he yells in the end, shoving aside a hairdresser holding a distressingly red bowl of dye. "I don't want to be a bloody ginger! Gods, this place is horrible!"

Before he can make a dramatic exit however, he turns back to face his nemesis, "Remember this when you're fucking yourself, Potter," he taps the side of his head twice with a finger, "Blonde. Ambition."

He storms out wondering why he'd shot his Father's barmy little comment at the man, but the tangible feeling of the brunet's gaze on his back tells him it was the perfect thing to say. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please do let me know what you think! and thank you so much for reading so far! :) my twt is @dracominnie if you'd like to be friends!₊*̥(* ⁰̷̴͈^⁰̷̴͈)‧˚₊


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